Well well well. Here it is, Saturday again and I've got almost nothing on my mind. It struck me this morning that I do my Interferon shot on Friday night and then promptly forget about it. It has so little outward impact on me that it's difficult to remember how hard it is on my body. I feel no obvious effects from my low red and white cell counts, and the breathlessness has all but disappeared. I still have gunk in my chest and throat -- it rattles around in there but doesn't come up or get worse -- and my voice is husky because of that and because my throat always seems dry, but my breathing is fine. Now that my thyroid levels are good, I feel fabulous most of the time, physically, at any rate.
And really, I should point out, if only to myself, that I feel pretty damned good emotionally, most of the time. I do have those awful moments of despair, but they don't last, and more often than not I have a smile on my face. Life is good, despite the poverty, the drudgery, the loneliness and the Interferon. I still hate my job, but at least it doesn't feel like hell anymore. The flurry of activity engendered by our switch to all-digital has died down and our office has become the sleepy little workplace it used to be. Almost. We're having a run on disconnects and new installs right now because many of our customers are in the military, and the military shuffles its personnel around periodically, but even that is normal. It happens a few times a year. So I think I'll be able to put up with it until my treatment is finished and I can start looking for something more congenial and closer to home. It would be great if Obama could get his health care reform package passed in its current state, but I won't be holding my breath on that one. I strongly agree with the assertion that health care should be available to everyone and that it shouldn't be attached to employment, and it makes me shudder to hear these right-wing nut jobs shrieking about health care being a privilege and not a right. What? And these people claim to be Christian? I don't get it. And have they heard of the UN? They might not like the UN, but this country is a member of that body, and the US as an entity agreed with the UN's pronouncement that health care is a basic human right. That discussion is over. It ended a long time ago. We agreed.
Okay, I didn't mean to climb onto my soapbox.
I've kept my profile up on the dating site all this time but haven't mentioned it because there really hasn't been anything to mention. I've corresponded with a few men, most of whom live in LA, but I didn't get excited about any of them, nor did I want to meet any of them. Last night I got a message from an intelligent, educated, cultured man who lives in Santa Barbara. He talked about English history and Beethoven's Kreutzer Sonata, both of which I mentioned in my profile, and he seems interesting. And funny. So what's the problem? The problem is that he's 56. And bald. He's not attractive -- at least, not to me. Also, he seems a bit prissy. I decided to sleep on it and write back in the morning, but this morning I felt even less inclined to respond than I did last night. I forced myself to write back, however, telling myself that perhaps he's more attractive in person than in photos. Many people are. Still, I'm not interested in an old man. I suppose it makes me shallow, but looks are somewhat important to me, and I'm not attracted to old men. As intelligent and cultured as this man is, the only thing I feel at the thought of meeting him is dread.
It's not just his looks, though. How can I take a 56-year-old, classical music-loving lawyer to see Emily Wells? Or Department of Eagles? I want someone younger, and hipper, someone whose tastes coincide, more or less, with mine. I want to run around with someone. I don't want to walk sedately into the opera house on the arm of a staid old bald man. I want to have fun, to go to SXSW and Coachella, and down to LA to see music or go to obscure art exhibitions. My problem is that I've stayed young, which could simply be called immaturity, but it's more than that. I've led such a different sort of life that I have trouble relating to people my own age or older.
This may not last, but at the moment I'm in a place where the earnest pursuit of culture has become a bore. Frivolity is the order of the day, and it seems that much of my mind lately is taken up with clothing and shoes. I have fun jumping on my trampoline, wandering around downtown going window-shopping, and playing dress-up. Last year I announced that I was ripping up my garden and starting over; I vowed to pull out all of the vegetables and plant a profusion of flowers. And that's what I've been doing. I'm even thinking of taking a class in swing dancing or ballroom dancing, except that I'm such a klutz that it might just be an embarrassment. I've taken dance classes before, in college, but once I discovered that not only do I have a terrible difficulty with learning the steps in the first place but I can't retain them even overnight, I gave up on dance. Each class was a frustrating attempt to play catch-up. So we shall see.
And now it's time to go water and weed my real garden, with its profusion of nasturtiums.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Climbing out of the pit
I'm feeling a little better this week, although my life is just as uncongenial as it was before. I just can't stay in that slough of self-pity for very long. The best cure for it is to take an interest in someone else and stop thinking so much about how much my life sucks, so that's what I did. I went to four meetings this week and listened to everyone else's problems and triumphs, which allowed me to forget my own for awhile and supplied the added benefit of opening up my connection to others through empathy and compassion.
I was given an opportunity to practice patience, as well. As I left the women's meeting on Thursday I was buttonholed by a woman whose conversation bores me nearly to death, and as she held me hostage for twenty deadly minutes I had occasion to be grateful for being myself. As she went droning on about the various wrongs she had suffered at other people's hands, it occurred to me that I'd rather live a life bereft of people than have what this woman has. Her life is filled with people, whom she invites to abuse her in one way or another so that she can wallow in her victimhood.
Not that I haven't got my own version of victimhood (last week's entry being a perfect example). It's just not like that. I used to make jokes about the Universal Conspiracy Against Hep Cat (that sounds funny, but I don't want to use my name), but the conspiracy, as I saw it, was impersonal. I didn't feel that other people were deliberately inflicting pain on me, or that God was singling me out for suffering in some malicious way. I've never been able to blame other people for what they do, or at least, not for long. My relentless honesty refuses to allow it. I tried pointing out to the woman last night, as she complained of having been used and abused by her former fiance, that because she voluntarily placed her neck under his foot, she can't very well blame him now for stepping on it. She said, "Yes, I know," but I don't think she does know. I've never met anyone who focuses more on other people's behavior. She seems incapable of looking at her own part in things. But she has stayed clean for over five years, and she's better now than she used to be, so there's hope. She reminds me of that old joke about the co-dependent who wakes up in the morning and says to her partner, "How do I feel today?" but there's always room for people to change.
So there it is, a simple solution to the ongoing irritation of my own inner victim. Another is to go and have some fun, which I was able to do last weekend, and which I'm planning to do today. My friend Rebecca, who was so helpful with my garden, has a bluegrass band which is playing this afternoon at Cold Springs Tavern. I was planning to go by myself, but on a whim I emailed my niece, who lives in Ojai, to invite her to go with me. She accepted happily, so she's going to meet me here later and we'll drive to the show together. A couple of weeks ago she invited me to an art opening in Ventura. I wanted to go, but it was the day of Kim's sponsee get-together, so I couldn't make it. But we agreed to let each other know when we found something fun to do, as both of us are starved for culture and living among philistines who don't care one way or the other.
I've been thinking that it would be a good idea if I started paying more attention to the UCSB Arts & Lectures series. They often have good stuff, but I never go, either because I forget about it or because I don't want to go by myself. My niece might want to go sometimes, which makes it a more appealing prospect. I don't want to miss Anne Lamott the next time she comes through, and there's music from all over the world. A big reason why I don't like working so far away from where I live is that I feel less like a Santa Barbaran because of it. I spend forty hours a week in another town, and I have to adjust myself every day as I leave here and come back here. Possibly availing myself of the culture on offer here will help to make me feel more at home.
I suppose I should mention Interferon at least once before I close. Last night I did my 26th shot, which means I have 28 to go. I'm almost halfway. The past week has been very nearly free of side effects, apart from the insomnia and the husky voice. I feel really good, physically; my lungs are clear, I have plenty of energy, and I'm able to spend quite a lot of time on my trampoline, which helps to mitigate the depression. I know that things can change in a moment, so I'm reveling in it while it lasts.
I was given an opportunity to practice patience, as well. As I left the women's meeting on Thursday I was buttonholed by a woman whose conversation bores me nearly to death, and as she held me hostage for twenty deadly minutes I had occasion to be grateful for being myself. As she went droning on about the various wrongs she had suffered at other people's hands, it occurred to me that I'd rather live a life bereft of people than have what this woman has. Her life is filled with people, whom she invites to abuse her in one way or another so that she can wallow in her victimhood.
Not that I haven't got my own version of victimhood (last week's entry being a perfect example). It's just not like that. I used to make jokes about the Universal Conspiracy Against Hep Cat (that sounds funny, but I don't want to use my name), but the conspiracy, as I saw it, was impersonal. I didn't feel that other people were deliberately inflicting pain on me, or that God was singling me out for suffering in some malicious way. I've never been able to blame other people for what they do, or at least, not for long. My relentless honesty refuses to allow it. I tried pointing out to the woman last night, as she complained of having been used and abused by her former fiance, that because she voluntarily placed her neck under his foot, she can't very well blame him now for stepping on it. She said, "Yes, I know," but I don't think she does know. I've never met anyone who focuses more on other people's behavior. She seems incapable of looking at her own part in things. But she has stayed clean for over five years, and she's better now than she used to be, so there's hope. She reminds me of that old joke about the co-dependent who wakes up in the morning and says to her partner, "How do I feel today?" but there's always room for people to change.
So there it is, a simple solution to the ongoing irritation of my own inner victim. Another is to go and have some fun, which I was able to do last weekend, and which I'm planning to do today. My friend Rebecca, who was so helpful with my garden, has a bluegrass band which is playing this afternoon at Cold Springs Tavern. I was planning to go by myself, but on a whim I emailed my niece, who lives in Ojai, to invite her to go with me. She accepted happily, so she's going to meet me here later and we'll drive to the show together. A couple of weeks ago she invited me to an art opening in Ventura. I wanted to go, but it was the day of Kim's sponsee get-together, so I couldn't make it. But we agreed to let each other know when we found something fun to do, as both of us are starved for culture and living among philistines who don't care one way or the other.
I've been thinking that it would be a good idea if I started paying more attention to the UCSB Arts & Lectures series. They often have good stuff, but I never go, either because I forget about it or because I don't want to go by myself. My niece might want to go sometimes, which makes it a more appealing prospect. I don't want to miss Anne Lamott the next time she comes through, and there's music from all over the world. A big reason why I don't like working so far away from where I live is that I feel less like a Santa Barbaran because of it. I spend forty hours a week in another town, and I have to adjust myself every day as I leave here and come back here. Possibly availing myself of the culture on offer here will help to make me feel more at home.
I suppose I should mention Interferon at least once before I close. Last night I did my 26th shot, which means I have 28 to go. I'm almost halfway. The past week has been very nearly free of side effects, apart from the insomnia and the husky voice. I feel really good, physically; my lungs are clear, I have plenty of energy, and I'm able to spend quite a lot of time on my trampoline, which helps to mitigate the depression. I know that things can change in a moment, so I'm reveling in it while it lasts.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Getting in touch with my inner Eeyore
I didn't write last week because I had nothing to say. I don't have much to say this week, either, but I don't want to get out of the habit of writing or this will end up being one of those ghostly blogs cluttering up cyberspace, and we can't have that, can we?
The update on the Interferon is that I've passed 24 weeks, which, had my virus behaved itself, would mark the halfway point, but since it took its sweet time going away, I've got three weeks to go before I'm halfway. The good news is that my viral load is still negative and my red and white counts are "holding their own," according to Judy. They're both still low, but they're not so low that we need to do anything drastic. Apart from the insomnia, which probably won't go away until the treatment is over, I haven't had any side effects in the last two weeks. I haven't even filled the prescription Dr H gave me for an inhaler because my lungs have been fine. The weather changed from chilly and overcast to sunny and ninety degrees every day, which may have something to do with that. The only unusual thing I've noticed is occasional aching and stiffness in my bones and muscles, like I'm about to get sick. It happens for a day or two, usually later in the week, five or six days after I do my shot, and then it goes away. I asked Judy about it and she said it might be a side effect. Well, that's good to know. If it's a side effect, that's fine. It's not anything I can't live with. But if it's not a side effect, then I'd like to know what it is. I suppose I'll find out next year, when the treatment is over. If it never happens again, I'll know it was a side effect.
Apart from that, I'm in something of a lull. No emotional or spiritual upheaval, no drama, nothing interesting going on in my life or in my mind. I'm a bit bored. I have no friends, nothing to compensate me for the tedium and drudgery of my job and the crushing poverty I can't seem to get out from under.
I don't want to complain. It does no good and it just makes me feel worse in the end. But the only thing that keeps me going is the thought that things will change soon, that I won't have to endure the poverty, the drudgery and the loneliness for very much longer. The problem is that I'm losing hope. Nothing has changed and nothing looks likely to change. From where I sit I see a dreary vista of more of the same stretching off into infinity. I'll spend the next two years toiling away at a job I hate for the privilege of paying off my car, and another year saving enough money to move someplace cheaper, all so that I can start all over, again, at the age of 47.
I can't do this a day at a time for the next thirty or forty years. Something has got to change. I've been in this rut for the last seven years, ever since my sponsor relapsed and our tight little circle broke up. I've been alone and bored and poor. I've been alone even when I wasn't: the last boyfriend I had taught me that being with someone just because he likes me is lonelier than being alone.
If I had a friend I think I could endure the rest of it. I sat at a meeting a couple of weeks ago in which the topic was gratitude, and as I listened to my fellow members talk about the things they were grateful for, I felt increasingly alone and different. They all have problems, of course, but not in all of the big areas of their lives, not all at once. Not when they have ten years clean, at any rate. They're grateful for their families, for the jobs they have that they love, for their friends and the fun things they do with the people they love. I haven't got any of those things. It seems to me that if I could get relief in just one of the three problem areas of my life I would feel less despair and more hope. A friend makes up for a lot of lack.
But I don't have a friend. I don't have anyone to matter to. If I want to go downtown and go window shopping, I have to go by myself because there's no one in my life I can call and invite to go with me. Yes, I have "friends," but they're more like acquaintances. If I want to do something with any of them I have to make an appointment three weeks in advance. I have no one to be spontaneous with, no one to hang out with and watch movies or go for a walk or meet for coffee.
There's something to be said, of course, for living a day at a time, but the days tend to pile up behind a person. Spending years plodding through my days just in order to meet the bare minimum of requirements for life is not living. It's existing. I've got ten years clean and I haven't got a life. It must be my fault, but I don't know what more I can do. I've been trying to change things for the last six years, to no avail. I've asked my higher power to point me toward what I want, and since I'm still here, maybe this is what I want. I don't know. I'm not making any decisions right now because I know the Interferon affects my mood, but my feeling is that if I hit fifty and nothing has changed, I don't see any point in sticking around any longer. Why should I shuffle into old age and infirmity, alone and poor, if I don't have to? With no safety net -- no retirement plan, no spouse, no children, nothing to cushion me -- all I would have to look forward to would be pushing a shopping cart around and eating dog food, talking to myself because I have no one else to talk to. I don't want to be the crazy cat lady.
I just made myself laugh, so perhaps there's hope for me yet.
The update on the Interferon is that I've passed 24 weeks, which, had my virus behaved itself, would mark the halfway point, but since it took its sweet time going away, I've got three weeks to go before I'm halfway. The good news is that my viral load is still negative and my red and white counts are "holding their own," according to Judy. They're both still low, but they're not so low that we need to do anything drastic. Apart from the insomnia, which probably won't go away until the treatment is over, I haven't had any side effects in the last two weeks. I haven't even filled the prescription Dr H gave me for an inhaler because my lungs have been fine. The weather changed from chilly and overcast to sunny and ninety degrees every day, which may have something to do with that. The only unusual thing I've noticed is occasional aching and stiffness in my bones and muscles, like I'm about to get sick. It happens for a day or two, usually later in the week, five or six days after I do my shot, and then it goes away. I asked Judy about it and she said it might be a side effect. Well, that's good to know. If it's a side effect, that's fine. It's not anything I can't live with. But if it's not a side effect, then I'd like to know what it is. I suppose I'll find out next year, when the treatment is over. If it never happens again, I'll know it was a side effect.
Apart from that, I'm in something of a lull. No emotional or spiritual upheaval, no drama, nothing interesting going on in my life or in my mind. I'm a bit bored. I have no friends, nothing to compensate me for the tedium and drudgery of my job and the crushing poverty I can't seem to get out from under.
I don't want to complain. It does no good and it just makes me feel worse in the end. But the only thing that keeps me going is the thought that things will change soon, that I won't have to endure the poverty, the drudgery and the loneliness for very much longer. The problem is that I'm losing hope. Nothing has changed and nothing looks likely to change. From where I sit I see a dreary vista of more of the same stretching off into infinity. I'll spend the next two years toiling away at a job I hate for the privilege of paying off my car, and another year saving enough money to move someplace cheaper, all so that I can start all over, again, at the age of 47.
I can't do this a day at a time for the next thirty or forty years. Something has got to change. I've been in this rut for the last seven years, ever since my sponsor relapsed and our tight little circle broke up. I've been alone and bored and poor. I've been alone even when I wasn't: the last boyfriend I had taught me that being with someone just because he likes me is lonelier than being alone.
If I had a friend I think I could endure the rest of it. I sat at a meeting a couple of weeks ago in which the topic was gratitude, and as I listened to my fellow members talk about the things they were grateful for, I felt increasingly alone and different. They all have problems, of course, but not in all of the big areas of their lives, not all at once. Not when they have ten years clean, at any rate. They're grateful for their families, for the jobs they have that they love, for their friends and the fun things they do with the people they love. I haven't got any of those things. It seems to me that if I could get relief in just one of the three problem areas of my life I would feel less despair and more hope. A friend makes up for a lot of lack.
But I don't have a friend. I don't have anyone to matter to. If I want to go downtown and go window shopping, I have to go by myself because there's no one in my life I can call and invite to go with me. Yes, I have "friends," but they're more like acquaintances. If I want to do something with any of them I have to make an appointment three weeks in advance. I have no one to be spontaneous with, no one to hang out with and watch movies or go for a walk or meet for coffee.
There's something to be said, of course, for living a day at a time, but the days tend to pile up behind a person. Spending years plodding through my days just in order to meet the bare minimum of requirements for life is not living. It's existing. I've got ten years clean and I haven't got a life. It must be my fault, but I don't know what more I can do. I've been trying to change things for the last six years, to no avail. I've asked my higher power to point me toward what I want, and since I'm still here, maybe this is what I want. I don't know. I'm not making any decisions right now because I know the Interferon affects my mood, but my feeling is that if I hit fifty and nothing has changed, I don't see any point in sticking around any longer. Why should I shuffle into old age and infirmity, alone and poor, if I don't have to? With no safety net -- no retirement plan, no spouse, no children, nothing to cushion me -- all I would have to look forward to would be pushing a shopping cart around and eating dog food, talking to myself because I have no one else to talk to. I don't want to be the crazy cat lady.
I just made myself laugh, so perhaps there's hope for me yet.
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